


The Girl Of Your Dreams

by VitaLupum



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaLupum/pseuds/VitaLupum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stories of the various women in the lives (or the heads) of RED Team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn

It was autumn.

The sun drifted yellow in the hazy sky, the hills in the distance explosions of autumnal colour, and Sniper sat, watching the city as it buzzed and heaved and  _lived_  beneath him, cars like beetles with iridescent backs scuttling along the roads far below, people nothing more than microscopic dots, punctuation on the pavement. The alliteration made him smile, and he stretched a hand out from the shade of his perch into the sun, watching as his tanned skin glowed in the soft light.

He had left the curtains to the apartment open, and the gauzy curtains drifted out as a gentle breeze tugged at them. One landed against his shoulder, bringing with it the soft scent of lily-of-the-valley, and he smiled.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She danced outside, lithe and light on her feet, and settled next to him, tresses of light brown hair tumbling down her back. She turned her electric blue eyes to him, and laughed as he blushed and looked away. He was too rough, too forceful, too terrifying and  _real_  for this she-elf from Tolkien's books, made flesh.

"You're so…" she murmured, and reached out her tiny fingers to stroke his short brown hair. He gazed, adoring, at her, until it almost hurt to look away; how she was so petite he could pick her up and carry her with him, her delicately painted fingernails, her heart-shaped mouth, her eyes that flashed and darted and shone with delight when he amused her, her beautiful clothes that were as much a part of her as her heart, and he leant in to kiss her.

And woke up.

Alone.

It had all been a dream, as per usual.

He rolled over, and checked the clock next to his bed. 4:30am, and the night's chill was definitely clinging on longer than it had been – or was that still a part of his dream? He sighed, and ran a rough hand over his face.

It was winter.

But in his heart, he thought, he  _knew_ … there was enough time until next autumn. And his pixie dream girl would be waiting.


	2. Roses

Spy watched as she walked away. A woman walking away always gave you enough time to regret, to run after them, to apologise, make amends. It would give him enough time to cloak and get out of sight before she should do the same.

She had worn the blue dress – the blue dress she always wore when it was an important situation, the one that clung to all her curves. She had always been concerned that, as a mother of so many children, she was fat, had stretchmarks. Spy had kissed every inch of her beautiful, velvet skin, and had promised her she was the most beautiful woman on Earth.

Oh, at first she had been suspicious. He was twenty years old, and she was nearing forty, after all, and she had seven children. But her figure was hourglass, her hair was onyx-black, her eyes like sapphires, and her wit was as sparkling as a diamond. And there was something else, something in her maternal nature that seemed to make up for all he had suffered, all he had never gotten to experience. For her part, she seemed dazzled, not by his looks – for her he had not dared take off his balaclava – but his accent, and his tales of the cities he had visited, and his chivalry and romanticism. He left out the espionage and murder.

They had talked at length about her sons; growing up in a city whose building sizes were matched only by its crime rate, how they needed a strong male role model. He could have been that role model.

And then the threats had started.

They were innocent enough at first, for threats; a dead dog in the back garden. Sometimes they got in, and had a scrap with Alfie, their Rottweiler, Lilith had explained, her delicate nose upturned. She had even considered it being a vicious prank by one of the boys, until the next one was left on the boot of their car. And then the next one.

He remembered her youngest – Mark, with the dark hair and cheeky grin – was just learning to toddle. She had scooped him up in her arms, upset, and marched back into the house. The boys were happy with a day off school. He was devastated, and he began to know he would have to end it.

The next step was the phone calls. To him, and her, and the eldest's – Logan – mobile phone. The last had caused fear in her that threats to herself could never match or even aspire to reach, and he had seen the lioness within, protecting her cubs.

Then had come the photographs. Ones of their most intimate moments,

He had packed, and he had sent his things off to a hotel as far away as he could reach, and then he had invited her here, to this train station, and he had given her a bunch of the most beautiful roses he could buy, and told her she could never see him again.

The agony in her eyes did not reach her voice. She was cool and calm, ran through reasons, asked cajolingly for answers, never found them. She had allowed him one last soft kiss on the lips, and now she left. She never once looked back.

Spy still referred to her as his nightmare girl. The others assumed it had gone badly, but he knew what the matter was. Every time he saw her in his dreams, she was walking away, and she would not answer, and that made it a nightmare.

Murdering her son every day on the battlefield – Mark, with the cheeky smile and the dark hair – did not make it easier one jot.


	3. Legs

Pyro's dream woman would probably be a fire-fighter. How incompatible and yet apposite; a fire-fighter in love with a serial arsonist. But she would have such interesting tales to tell, and he could help her. He would always ensure she would have a job.

How would she look? Well, her hair would have to be red. A red-headed female fire-fighter… that couldn't be too unlikely. Tousled and waved, so long she could almost sit on it, and as soft as silk so that he could run his hands through it. And her eyes… blind. She would have to be blind so that she was not repulsed by his scars.

Blind fire-fighter… hmm. Probably not going to happen.

Okay, she would have to be accepting. And given the number of burn victims she had seen, she would probably not be too bothered. Soft gentle fingers, to run along the scarred ridges of his face and a beautiful mouth to tell him she loved him and he was handsome to her. Voluptuous and soft, as feminine as was possible, to contrast with her work life. He wanted a side of her nobody else could ever have. And long, slender legs. He liked legs.

Personality? Bubbly, sweet and fun-loving, to pull him out of his shell. Always out and having fun, and he did honestly not mind if it were with him or no, as long as sometimes it was. Lots of friends, because that would mean he knew she was always in safe hands.

Oh, and the ability to not be fazed by a guy who could shoot fire out of his hands courtesy of his split personality.

Sometimes, Pyro wondered if he was too picky.


	4. Ophelia

Demoman smiled at the picture on his desk, and then reversed it so that the picture of Nessie showed instead. It would never do to have Spy discover his true love, no; the infamous womanizer would immediately target her, no doubt, and he always did it in such a way as to be able to look embarrassed and claim he did not mean to. Demoman was not having that.

Demoman's dream woman was called Ophelia, and she was waiting for him back in Scotland, patiently, more patiently than he could ever have hoped for. His mother rang every month or so with an update on her, and he saw her during the two Christmas weeks he was home. She would never leave him, and he could barely bring himself to leave her when his break was up.

She was tall and thin, nearly taller than him, with poker-straight deep brown hair and copper eyes that always held a sly smile. She had always found his eyepatch 'dashing' and it was down to her that he did not drink when he came back. A minute forgotten with her was as terrible as a year forgotten else. She was quiet, sarcastic, quick-witted and was stronger than an ox, and whenever he kissed her she tasted of cinnamon and honey.

Demoman was in love, and when he finally got out of the godforsaken desert base, he would ask her to marry him.


	5. Family

Medic had no dream woman. After your marriage collapses into a crumbling heap, you tend to lose faith in the foundations that were supposedly keeping it strong.

It had not been her fault entirely, he reminded himself as his fingers danced over the violin strings. She had not actively demolished the walls – she had more stood by as dry rot set in, and brushed up the crumbling mortar.

She had been stout and stupid, cow-eyed – but had she always looked like that? Medic could have sworn that when they had first met, she had been curvaceous, naïve, with copper eyes that glittered when she laughed or cried. Her long blonde hair – as dull and as rough as straw, he had shouted at her once, as dull as  _her_  – had once been as golden as pirate's treasure. He had written songs to her, played outside her window, knowing full well if he was caught sneaking from university grounds at night he could be expelled, and she had listened, charmed by the beauty pouring from his fingertips.

Her bubbly laughter had rapidly become a crow's caw, he remembered, a note souring beneath his hands. She had become fat on his wage as a doctor, and he had become lean under his haunting depression at her existence.

And she had wanted children.

 _Donner und Blitzen_ , he could not stand children. He hated the mess they made, their weakness, their stupid big eyes – like hers, he caught himself thinking bitterly – the way they chattered incessantly, their need for constant attention. He hated the way they left fingerprints on everything, tore up any paper they could reach, drew on walls. As a doctor, he had delivered enough of the damn things, and they were disgusting from the moment they fell into the world.

But she had been enamoured by the things. Whenever they passed a woman with a baby carriage, she would coo and preen and make delighted remarks, as he would stand there, eyes getting narrower and voice getting sharper until finally he would simply begin to walk without her, and she would follow like an enormous cooing pink balloon. She would knit tiny bonnets and gloves and thrust them in his face and ask when they would be worn. The only time he had ever been tempted to hit a woman was that moment, when she was staring into his eyes with hers, clutching a beige bonnet in her fat fingers, and whimpering about her 'biological clock' and 'maternal instincts'.

It was probably his own fault, he mused, notes once again sweet and melodic. Or rather, his father's. His father had been perfect; a family man, strict yet kind, bringing home sweets and telling stories of his work. And yet he had failed. He had failed Medic, and he had failed Medic's mother. And if he had been so perfect and yet failed on such a scale, how could  _he_  ever compare?

So it had gone on, until the day she walked in, with the man in the black suit behind her, and informed him she was leaving, she had found somebody else. This man, smaller than Medic by a head, prissy little moustache and watery blue eyes, had smirked at him, and Medic had nodded, and punched him.

And that had been that.

Why had it hurt so much? Not the punch, although the man must've kept a bar of iron behind his moustache – Medic had broken a knuckle – but her leaving? Was it the thought of his own inferiority? Was it her sheer defiance, the strength she had never showed him saved up for years and years and finally thrown in his face?

Two months later, the contract from R.E.D. had arrived, and he had signed so hurriedly he almost tore the paper in two.

He found it almost ironic that, in getting rid of his broody wife, he had gained eight children, almost. They did rely on him – for entertainment, for safety, for care when they were hurt or sick. He was a glorified babysitter, and-

"Doc?"

Sniper stuck his head through the door, and Medic stopped playing. There were tears in his eyes.

"Y'alright?" the Australian asked, and Medic nodded.

" _J-ja_."

"Well… we're all havin' a beer in the mess hall an' playin' a round of poker, if you wanna come along," Sniper asked, eyes narrowing a little. "Y'sure yer alright?"

"Never better," Medic confirmed, and wiped his eyes. "I vill be right zere."

As Sniper left, Medic mused that it was kind of bittersweet. But he was not alone. And who needed a wife when he had a family?


	6. Friends

Engineer's most favourite girl in the whole wide world was his sister.

Women didn't interest him, romantically. They were emotional, and loud, and unpredictable – he saw Spy's face when he talked about his 'nightmare' girl, and Medic's face when he didn't talk about his ex-wife – and they cost money, for food, and shoes, and clothes, and shoes, and shoes. They spent three hours on their hair and makeup to go down the store and then shouted when you took half an hour rebuilding the remote control so they could watch their dumb fashion shows.

About the only woman he could stand was his sister.

She shared his blond hair – or had, before he shaved his off – and sea-green eyes, and his love for building and making and engineering. She used to follow him around, crawling on her hands and knees, pulling apart the things he built to examine them as quickly as he built them. It did not annoy him; it merely gave him another opportunity to rebuild them better.

As a young girl, she had idolised him; he was her hero big brother, strong and smart, and he would beat up her playground bullies. His report card would probably have set his behaviour three times higher if he had not been involved in those fights, but it was worth it.

When he was in trouble, she would sneak in with candy, and when she was in trouble, he would rig her TV to work without the power lead so she could watch it in secret. Her friends would come around and giggle at him wandering around with his shirt off in the Texan heat, and his friends would come around and make gibes about how they were going to marry her one day and ask him to be best man.

As an adult, she would buy him food when he forgot to eat in the middle of building something. She would clean his tiny flat, chide him for leaving cups out, and then, finally, when she got married, he gave her away whilst their father, unable to stand from arthritis, clumsily applauded.

So yeah, romance and love and all that could go hang. The only woman Engineer needed was his sister, his best friend.

Although, he noticed, Miss Pauling was kind of cute.


	7. Posters

Soldier's ideal woman was based around British World War posters his father had on the walls of his study when he was a child.

The study had been the place of fear. It was the place he went to be punished – when he had 'accidentally' shut the cat in the washer, when he had gotten into those fights at school, when he had sworn at his mother. By god, his father had disciplined him. But staring at those women on the walls had been a welcome distraction, and finally, he had decided one day he would marry someone like them.

They seemed so feminine, with curled locks of blonde hair or tied back brown tresses that tumbled out from under headscarves – the redheads had always seemed to be on the 'Loose Women Cost Lives!' posters – with pouting rosy lips and sparkling eyes. And without makeup too, since makeup had been rationed.

And they were always doing what was right. What was needed. They were silent and sweet and hardworking and were prepared to sacrifice everything for their menfolk and their king and country. He found this more attractive than anything, in his indoctrinated youth. Even as his father smacked him about, with fingerprints burned into his skin and the marks of a walking stick in his stomach and ribs, he knew one day he would marry a woman like that, have children like him, and never ever ever lay a hand on either of them unless they deserved it. He couldn't think of a situation where they would, so that was okay.

She would be quiet, a genius in the kitchen, self-sacrificing and a mother, a true woman, not one of these trouser-wearing loudmouths who you saw smoking – women smoking? – outside of cinemas. The only woman who was allowed to smoke was the Administrator. She had earned it somehow. Soldier wasn't sure how, but she had. And she had to like Shovel. That was a deal-breaker.

Soldier was prepared to hold out for this woman, no matter how long it took.


	8. Curls

Scout's perfect girl?

She had to be smokin'. He wanted long legs; golden curls; a chest like someone had stuck a bike pump in there and blown to her up 'til she was gonna burst. An older woman, not one of these giggling bimbos he used to go to school with, the ones who looked like they'd been shot in the head with a makeup gun. No, she had to be naturally beautiful, or damn good at wearing makeup anyway. He didn't give one either way as long as she was hot.

And personality?

He'd never really thought about it. Girls had 'em, but it didn't matter either way once you got 'em in bed, he reckoned. Fine. She'd have to be gentle with him – not that he needed it, but a caring woman couldn't be a bad thing, right? And smart – but not too smart. She couldn't go outthinking him, that'd just be embarrassing. Chatty and loud, otherwise he'd never friggin' hear her over himself, hah. Yeah, that'd do it. And she'd have to like his mom, otherwise she was out of there like a shot. No broad talked crap about his ma.


	9. Fence

Heavy's only true love had been snatched away from him at the age of 12.

His father had been a hardworking man, opposed to the revolution, and as a child Heavy had idolised him for his calm demeanour. His big strong papa, who had died like a dog gunned down in the streets. And Heavy, his mother, and his siblings had been taken to a gulag in Siberia.

Here he had learned to hate all things. There was no light or happiness; only mud, and howling snowstorms, and constant, backbreaking work. He had been put to labour in the sorting room, an enormous, grey building full of rubbish and smoke and other hollow-eyed twelve year olds who, like him, spent their entire day with their hands in metal shrapnel searching for anything of value. If they missed an item, they missed a meal. If they kept an item for themselves, they got to keep the scars of a beating in return.

Then she had appeared.

Her name was Galina, and she was perfect. Her skin was pale and her eyes were dark pools, and she sorted through the trash with a grace and keen eye that impressed the overseers… so they made her work more. She was placed next to Heavy, and he began to look after her, helping her lift the heavier items as she helped him spot the smaller ones. They would play together when the supervisors were not watching. They began to plan their escape; they would run away, and get married when they were old enough. To a twelve-year-old and a nine-year-old, marriage had no meaning other than two people never leaving each other; they were pleased with that.

Then came the night of the fire.

Heavy had awoken to his mother throwing the few rags they had been allowed to keep together, chiding his two brothers for not hurrying up, and she had hustled him out of his bed to get dressed.

" _We are leaving_ ," she had told him, and he had stared at her in wonder, and then in dread. Some of the others had left, and he was not stupid. They were dead now. But his mother seemed – well, she had not been cheerful in years, but –  _optimistic_. And so he hurried himself out.

It was chaos.

Blood spatters up every wall.

The crackling of fire and the woody stench of smoke.

Screams, cheers, roars; the noise of a mob unleashed.

As he was dragged towards a hole in the fence, he happened to turn around.

Galina was being dragged towards the other fence by her father. She waved, reached for him one last time – and then was gone.

Heavy had never forgotten her.


End file.
